


Rooster Stew

by beetle



Category: Star Trek
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you don't like fic that revolves around an awful pun . . . uh . . . step on in! None of those in here!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rooster Stew

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Roddenberry and Abrams would phaser me if they read this. And that phaser wouldn't be set to "stun."  
> Notes/Warnings: This has no redeeming value.

“And this is our Bridge, the crew--you've already met Commander Spock, and Ensign Chekov.” Kirk grins as he, Lieutenant Uhura and the Federation's honored guest step off the turbo-lift. Spock and Dr. McCoy, distracted from a whispered disagreement, immediately look up.  
  
  
McCoy immediately frowns.  
  
  
Uhura relays Kirk's words in almost flawless Ma'adeshi, and Lievalan, the Ma'adesh Ambassador to the Federation nods at both Kirk and Uhura, then at McCoy, who frowns even harder and crosses his arms. Then the Ambassador bows deeply to Spock, with the formal, but not unfriendly respect that sometimes exists between two equally accomplished and equally determined men.  
  
  
Finally, he turns his dark gaze toward the helm, and Chekov, who'd been following the Ambassador's progress from the moment he stepped off the turbo-lift.  
  
  
After exchanging a glance with Uhura, Kirk's eyes dart between his navigator and his guest, and then to McCoy, who's . . . rather red-faced, but not blushing, like the Ensign is.  
  
  
The Ensign whom Ambassador Lievalan is already moving toward, long purple hands held out and palms up in the Ma'adeshi greeting-for-long-parted-friends.  
  
  
“Chekov Ensign,” he says warmly, practically purrs as Chekov touches his hands palm-to-palm, the welcome-of-one-who-is-eagerly-awaited. They step closer to each other, hands lowering, palms still touching. Then the Ambassador smiles and kisses Chekov's forehead tenderly, lingeringly, and in an odd reverse of Ma'adeshi custom.  
  
  
He's got at least a foot on Chekov (and he's  _not_  especially tall for a Ma'adeshi), which means crouching down like that shouldn't be fun. But instead of straightening up after that non-regulation display of a foreign national, Ambassador Lievalan murmurs something low and musical, and Chekov laughs, coloring a little. Then they step back from each other, but don't let go of each other's hands, merely . . . stare into each other's eyes. Chekov says something in halting Ma'adeshi—more of it than Spock managed to learn—and the Ambassador lets go of Chekov's left hand to make a brief, complicated gesture that ends with the Ambassador's orange-speckled fingertips lightly drumming his throat and down his sternum.  
  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Uhura says, at the same time Chekov does, and Chekov's left hand flies to his mouth at the same time Uhura's does.  
  
  
“ _Y nava hanna. U chirruh vwellange homiwn._ ” Ambassador Lievalan hangs his head for a moment, knee-length orange braids sliding audibly across his robes of office. “Yee-fah, Pah-vel . . . qutay bah thoseer, u nava. . . .”  
  
  
“What'd he say?” Kirk whispers to Uhura, but she hushes him, like he's talking over really good holo. Her eyes are wide, and ping-ponging back and forth between the Ambassador and Chekov, and so, for that matter, are the rest of the Bridge officers. In fact, the Ambassador is speaking again, less haltingly before, and near Kirk, Uhura starts translating again, something about house of the mother's mother. . . .  
  
  
“Oh, yes!” Chekov blurts out, suddenly lit up like a small sun. (Thanks to an away mission gone wrong, and several weeks spent on Ma'adesh II much of it in Ambassador Lievalan's company, he clearly doesn't need a xeno-linguist to keep him in the know.) “Yes, I vould  _love_  to have a bowl of your cock soup!”  
  
  
This is the first time any of them have heard Uhura not only stumble while translating, but stop completely, eyes gone even wide, mouth hanging open in impolite horror. Chekov manages to look away from the Ambassador's intent gaze to find everyone on the Bridge gaping at him—and all of the male officers, including Spock either crossing their legs, or standing funny and wincing.  
  
  
Chekov seems incredibly young, and incredibly confused.  
  
  
“Em. What?” he asks into a loaded silence that's punctuated only by various beeps and blips, and receives no answer, even from his captain, till Lieutenant Sulu clears his throat.   
  
  
“Logistically speaking, Pavel, it's not gonna be an entire  _bowl_. Probably only a few tablespoonfuls at most,” he says, then flinches under the look McCoy sends his way.  
  
  
Kirk opens his mouth then shuts it, clearly deciding discretion is the better part of valor. “Right,” he sighs. “Uh. Yeah. So, anyway--”  
  
  
“And cook you some of my grandmother's famous rooster stew!” Uhura finishes translating into a second, much longer silence, created entirely by her. Then she winces, and sidles off to her station, looking vaguely pained.  
  
  
Chekov and the Ambassador shrug at each other, and keep smiling, moving closer to each other, as if they're alone, and have all the time in the universe for staring.  
  
  
“Kirk, Captain of the Enterprise. I would consider this a personal favor of large magnitude: you will allow this one, Chekov, Ensign of the Helm, to tour with us?”  
  
  
Here, they both turn bright, hopeful eyes on Kirk, who scratches the back of his neck and ignores the way McCoy is nudging him, and muttering  _say no._ No _, goddamnit!_  
  
  
“Ah . . . I don't see why not.” He exchanges a glance with Spock, who seems more dour and subtly disapproving than usual. “In fact, yeah, sure, the more, the merrier.”  
  
  
McCoy, meanwhile, has stopped nudging, and started grumbling to himself. No one pays him any mind.  
  
  
“. . . nothin' but fancy hogwash that means  _can the jail-bait eye-candy tag-along with us? Can he? Can he? Huh? Huh?_  Unprofessional, if y'ask me.” He shoots Ambassador Lievalan a dark, thunderous scowl that makes no impression whatsoever. Once again, the Ambassador and the Ensign only have eyes for each other.  
  
  
“--in Starfleet regs about virgin sacrifices--”  
  
  
“Oh, shut up, Bones,” Kirk orders amiably. “Okay. So, welcome to the tour, Mr. Chekov, we've still got Engineering, Botany, and Astrometrics to show off, then there's dinner in the captain's dining room.”  
  
  
“Chekov, Ensign of the Helm will join us also for dining, yes?” Ambassador Lievalan asks, having picked up at least as much English as Chekov has Ma'adeshi. He hisses his S's slightly, and rolls all his R's, and Chekov can't stop smiling up at him.  
  
  
Ignoring both his first officer, and his chief medical officer, Kirk grins. “Sure will. If that's okay with--”  
  
  
Chekov bounces, all big eyes and curly curls. “Yessir, I will come, sir! I am honored to come, sir!”  
  
  
The Bridge crew winces en masse. All except the Ambassador, Chekov, and Kirk, who simply grins wider.  
  
  
“This is excelling, Kirk, Captain of the Enterprise. If the ingredients are not lacking here, on your ship, I will share my cock soup for you, too.”  
  
  
Suddenly, McCoy sounds like he's choking on something, and he looks like a man having a fit. A fit that sounds remarkably like laughter. Several of the crew seem to be having the same problem, though Kirk is still smiling . . . a bit stiltedly.  
  
  
“Yeah, no, thanks, that's . . . kind of you, Ambassador, but, uh . . . cock soup disagrees with me--”  
  
  
“Hah!” Sulu laughs, loud and brief, then looks innocent when Kirk's narrowed gaze finds him. It holds the promise of grim, grim payback. Sulu turns back to the helm without another word.  
  
  
Kirk aims his stilted smile back at the oblivious pair. Surprisingly, they surface enough from contemplation of each other to gaze at him with similar, serene benevolence. “Alright, Butch, Sundance, let's saddle up. Next stop: Engineering.”  
  
  
The pair refocuses their attention just enough to follow him to the turbo-lift hand-in-hand, the eyes of the entire Bridge—except, perhaps, Sulu—on them. When Ambassador Lievalan offers his long, rangy arm, covered in at least three layers of cloth, Chekov blushes, but takes it.   
  
  
“Em, Keptin, may we tour Astrometrics first? I have compiled star charts that I think would greatly interest the Ambassador.” Chekov says, then turns even redder when he addresses the Ambassador. “When we were on Ma'adesh, I promised that one day I would show you Earth's sky. Not as many stars as the Ma'adeshi sky, and only one moon, but is wery beautiful.”  
  
  
“Yes, very much beautiful, it is,” Ambassador Lievalan agrees gently, his stoic, saturnine features softening. Rolling his eyes, Kirk waves them ahead of him, like a bored chaperon. The doors to the turbo-lift close on Chekov's sunny laugh and the Ambassador's deep, rolling chuckle.   
  
  
In their wake, the Bridge is once more silent, but for bleeps and blips. Everyone exchanges glances or shrugs to themselves. Predictably, it's McCoy who breaks the silence with a grit-toothed growl.  
  
  
“Well!  _Someone_ 's gotta make sure that boy don't wind up with more . . .  _cock soup_  than he bargained for, and it damn sure ain't gonna be our  _captain_ , is it?”  
  
  
A second later, the turbo-lift doors close behind him, as well. Yet another silence, as thick as cock soup descends. Then everyone turns back to their stations more or less at the same time.  
  
  
“It's gonna be one  _hell_  of an orgy, and here I am, stuck at the conn. Totally not fair,” Sulu mutters, holding down his own fort, and Chekov's till Riley and Vidal come on shift.  
  



End file.
